Of Streetcorners, Instruments, And Whistles
by mandaree1
Summary: The story of how Ami and Yumi met, including (as mentioned in the title) Street-sides, musical instruments, and Yumi's hatred of whistles.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Hi Hi Puffy AmiYumi**

**Summary: The story of how Ami and Yumi met, including (as mentioned in the title), Street-sides, musical instruments, and Yumi's hatred of whistles.**

**...**

The street corner was busy, but not crowded, with a clean sidewalk and little criminal activity. Small general stores lined the street, windows crowded with dainty nick-nacks and the promise of savings, drawing in curious customers. A perfect place to start her career.

Brushing away any dirt, she sat down and leaned against the wall. Setting her open guitar case next to her, she closed her eyes and began to play the electric guitar resting comfortably in her lap.

She'd always had a problem with authority. Part of it she knew came from her attitude, the other being her disastrous past with opera. Spending a good portion of your childhood under the control of some stupid dog whistle and being forced to sing at inhumanely high decibels did that to you. It also gave you an aversion to anything that even _resembled_ a whistle and more than a few problems with the world in general. One of them, namely, being authority.

She was her own person, plain and simple. She wasn't going to be someone else's doll to pull the strings _ever again_, and she certainly wasn't going to listen to authority figures. If she listened _too_ much, she feared she may just become brainwashed by society (again). She didn't want that.

Getting a normal job was practically impossible. Her entire persona; her clothes, her attitude, her hatred of anything_ not_ musical, made her a bad choice for any business looking to hire. Those who _did_ take the chance and hired her soon found that she didn't listen to her higher-ups. She'd do the job, and she'd do it right, but she wouldn't take any instructions while she was doing it. She'd figure it out on her own _eventually_. It drove he supervisors up the wall, and it quickly made her status go from 'got a job' to 'anyone know where I can get a job?'

Her parents wanted her to go back to opera. 'You were so _talented_.' They'd said. 'You'd never be turned away in_ that_ business.' Ingrained habit made her bite her tongue about the whistle, much to her own disgrace. All they'd ever known was that'd she thrown a 'hissy fit' (more like had a moment of freedom from the cursed instrument) and quit on the spot. And when she quit, she didn't go back. Plain and simple. Rockers didn't do opera, especially rockers with an aversion or opera teachers.

Which led her to striking out on her own. She _would_ be a rock star, she'd just have to earn the cash herself. So she'd set up her guitar and began playing. If she were lucky, then a talent manager would eventually hear about her and as to be her sponsor. If not, then she'd just have to work as her _own_ talent manager.

The thump of change made her smile. See? He plan was working already.

She closed her eyes, leaning against the wall. Just pretend your on stage, she told herself.

Pretend what will someday become reality.

* * *

She'd _planned_ on being a designer and model. But things never seemed to go as planned, now did they?

The modeling world was... competitive. Nastily so. Having not a singly nasty bone in her body, she'd quickly realize it just wouldn't work out. She had the looks and the fashion sense, sure, but not the ultra-competitiveness they desired. She left only a few weeks after starting, having only modeled for a magazine ad and a thumbnail shot on a computer page.

Running out of job ideas, she fell back on her first love; music. She'd always thought her chances at making it in the fashion world was more so than he chances of making it in the music world, but she'd soon been proven false. Her abilities on drums (and guitar, but she preferred drums) far surpassed the others in her class, and her natural sense of rhythm soon paved way to a familiar, yet new, dream; to become a rock star.

She'd wanted to rock ever since she was a child, but she'd pushed the dream aside. Her grandmother was far too old-fashioned to accept her as a rock-lover. Thankfully, her grandmother never watched TV or listened to the radio either, so, if she did manage to hit it big, she could easily send false notes about her 'career' as a wig maker and the women would never be the wiser.

The street corner was clean, the sidewalks clear of any trash. Across the small street, she could hear the sounds of an electric guitar wowing the crowd. This would do quite nicely.

She set her basic drum set and cymbals down on the ground, grabbed her drumsticks, and began to play.

* * *

Her solo veered of course a bit, her fingers slipping on the strings. Her eyes snapped open in surprise. The music continued, as though her fingers were on auto-pilot, but she hardly noticed.

The drummer, a woman with neon pink hair akin to that of a girl she vaguely remembered carpooling (and hanging out) with at a young age. She glanced up from her drum-set at the sound of her veering solo.

The drums were set directly on the ground, books propping them up just enough to get the full amount of sound. Two rather old cymbals hung haphazardly from pencils stuck deep into the cracks in the sidewalk. The girl smiled. Her eyebrow rose, frown deepening. She hadn't even considered the possibility of competition.

She waved a drumstick. She closed her eyes and finished her solo.

The girl didn't stand a chance.

* * *

"We've lost all our fans." Bubblegum-hair sighed, slumping down against the wall next to her.

"They'll be back." The competition between the two had been intense the past few weeks they'd been on the same block, and more than a few store owners had broadcasted their performances to draw in more customers, drawing in larger and larger crowds.

"You think so?"

But the crowds weren't interested in music lately. Instead, they'd corralled around some up and coming ventriloquist with a stupid wooden doll and lots of termite jokes. No account for taste, she supposed.

"I know so." She nodded. "He'll run out of jokes eventually, and then they'll get sick of him."

"But what if he doesn't?" She shrugged.

"Then we change streets. But it won't happen, trust me."

"Thanks." She smiled.

"No big. By the way, you might want to get to your drums. Who knows what'll happen to them if you leave them alone too long." A lie, a blatant one at that. Crime was practically nonexistent on the street corner, but the girl still scrambled back to her set at the thought.

"My drums!" Rolling her eyes, she went back to playing.

* * *

She was _done_.

Finished. Fin. She gave up. She wasn't going to beat him. Oh well, on to the next street. And_ fast_.

She winced as the piercing sound floating into her ears. He'd been using a lunch whistle, like the ones in those old cartoons, twice a day, to signal the show was over. Twice a day. For a _week_.

Clicking her guitar case shut, she felt old memories begin to creep up.

_"Sing, my little puppet, sing!"_

"Are you okay?" She startled. Bubblegum-hair cocked her head to the side.

Glaring at nothing, she sighed, the look quickly losing its heat. "I don't do whistles."

"Oh. So, where are you going?"

"To a new street. Somewhere _without_ puppet boy."

"Speaking of the puppet guy, I've got a plan to get our fans back." She bounced up in down in excitement. Ignoring the urge to snarl at the ray of sunshine shining directly into her eyes next to her, she picked up her case.

"Good for you. See you around. Later."

"Wait!" She grabbed her arm. "I need your help for it to work."

"Then make a new plan." She snapped. "I'm _done_ listening to that stupid hunk of metal."

"_Please!?_" Her eyes were sparkling, shaking the arm she held in her own. Feeling her resolve weaken, she glared at the accursed metal torture device and repeatedly reminded herself of the horrid noise that came from within. She couldn't handle it anymore... right?

"No."

"I'll help you destroy the whistle later..." She bargained, smiling at the slump in her shoulders.

She sighed, the arm holding her case fell limp. The case thudded against the ground. "_Fine._ When did you learn so much about me?"

She shrugged. "You learn a lot of things when you fight with someone a long time."

* * *

"Ready?"

The plan was stupid. It wouldn't work. She knew it wouldn't work. They heard them playing all the time, what would playing together possibly hope to solve? She gritted her teeth, shifting the guitar in her lap.

"As I'll ever be." Bubblegum-hair picked up her sticks. She readied her hands.

"One, two, three-"

"Wait!"

She sighed, slumping against the wall. "What?"

"I just realized, I _still_ don't know your name."

"What does a name have to do with any of this!?" Sighing, she turned back to her guitar, effectively escaping the begging look she was receiving. "It's Yumi."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Ami." She held out a hand. She begrudgedly shook it.

"Now lets do this thing!"

* * *

"We're a hit!" Ami cheered, looking over the quickly dispersing crowd, drum sticks clutched in her hands with a newfound vigor.

"I noticed." She glanced at her full case, then sighed. "Help me split this thing."

At the far end of the crowd, a small, older, man with little hair and only a bit more facial hair, smirked at the crowd, then at the full case. He'd found his act to sponsor.

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